


A Dark Hand in the Void

by Eruna2704



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Cicero being Cicero, Dark Brotherhood Questline, Death, Dysfunctional Family, Eventual Smut, Fluff and Angst, Injury, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Murder, Night Terrors, PTSD, Supernatural Elements, astrid being a hoe, sithis being an asshole, slight mentions of main quest line, the night mother being done with everyone's shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:34:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22348039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eruna2704/pseuds/Eruna2704
Summary: Amara is the bastard half elf of a noble Breton house.When her father dies and his wife plots to kill her to inherit the wealth of her family, the sole heir must flee to the inhospitable land of Skyrim. Escaping her fate as the Dragonborn and saviour of Tamriel, Amara finds solace in a certain dwindling dysfunctional family and everyone's favourite Fool of Hearts. But Sithis is a cruel father and he will test his new Listener in ways she cannot imagine.After all, the life under the Black Hand has always demanded a price...
Relationships: Arnbjorn/Astrid (Elder Scrolls), Cicero/Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn, Cicero/Female Listener (Elder Scrolls), sithis/the night mother
Comments: 5
Kudos: 8





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, I'm shamelessly writing the story of my Skyrim character because I've grown unhealthily attached to her. Cool? Cool, let start our tale!

“Hey, you. You're finally awake.” I groaned unceremoniously. If the lumbering oaf of a nord had truly been paying attention, he would know I was slipping in and out of consciousness from the time my ass was hauled on to this dumb cart.

“You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that  
thief over there.”

I didn’t bother to entertain him with a response, simply fixing him with a hard glare. The nord quickly averted his gaze, turning to bicker with the horse thief. I slumped back into my seat, joints and muscles aching from the brutality of my journey.

Fleeing from Highrock wasn’t easy, avoiding brute and assassins alike was getting harder and harder the more days I spent on the run. Wilantra was a cruel woman, so I suppose it should have come to no surprise to me that she had such vile people in her back pocket. After what they did to Ma… Well I had half the mind to return to Highrock. Finish off the bitch like I finished off her lackeys, a nice clean arrow inbetween the eyes. When father first had me take up archery as a child, Wilantra was always so against it. I never had understood why.

Until now.

“Shut up back there!” The imperial’s tone was harsh, causing me to wince. The horse thief piped up next.

“And what’s wrong with him?” The nord, Ralof I think, grew immediately indignant.

“Watch your tongue! You’re speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true high king.”

I felt all the blood drain from my face, head whipping around to finally look at the man next to me. Sure enough, Ralof’s words were true. The violent elf hater, Ulfric, sat bound and gagged next to me. As childish as it was, I felt the need to hide my pointed ears under my hair like I had so often done to pass amongst the Bretons back home. Being the bastard child of a bosmer housemaid and noble Breton was hard enough, elf ears made it harder.

“Where are they taking us?” I choked out. Ralof met my eyes in solemn pity and the mask of the strong young man dropped to reveal a tired soldier.

“I don’t know where we’re going, but Sovangarde awaits.”

I drowned out the horse thief’s panicking, casting my gaze back to Ulfric. He caught my eye, staring for a moment before looking back down at his feet. My heart began to race as stone walls emerged in the distance, a large wooden gate drawing back to welcome us to our fate.

Highrock had heard of Skyrim’s civil unrest, but surely they would be able to tell the rebel Stormcloaks apart from the average thief. I was just crossing the border, I wasn’t apart of Ulfric’s bullshit rebellion. My heart raced with possibilities of what I could say, before I snorted quietly to myself.

What was I to tell them?

Hello, my name is Amara. No, no last name. Well you see I am the bastard half elf of house Dalarde of Highrock. My father is lord Alion Dalarde. Oh, you don’t know him. Well I doubt you’d know my mother; she was just a bosmer servant. What was I doing crossing the border? Well you see, my father’s wife is trying to kill me because I am the last heir of my family house. Yeah, she also poisoned my father who’s grave is still very fresh. Do you offer asylum for cases such as mine?

I watched, eyes wet, as we passed General Tullius talking to what seemed like a Thalmor dispatch. This truly was the end of the line. My eyes shut on instinct as the carriage halted and the order was cried out for all prisoners to exit it.

My heels hit the ground, but nothing felt solid under my feet. They took our names and tugged us along, placing us right at the chopping blocks feet. The horse thief, Lokir, attempted a wild dash. His efforts were cut short by a well placed arrow, again it didn’t feel real to watch. The noised around me were dull, as if my head was submerged under water.

I can’t come to terms with any of this. My last words will be shared with strangers, my last scene in a foreign land far away from home. I never got to say goodbye to anyone…

I shut my eyes as the axe swung down, stomach churning at the sound of the hot-blooded soldiers head rolling. I pooled my face into an expressionless mask, these bastards already had my head in their bag. I wouldn’t give them anything more.

I vaguely heard my name being called up, barely felt the scrape of the dirt against my knees, somewhat felt the hot tears roll over my cheeks and I braced myself…

But the blow never came.

I watched as the black mass of the dragon flew high up in the air, before disappearing in the crest of a mountain. Then, I immediately doubled over and hurled my guts on to the side of the road. I felt a large hand on my back as the small contents of my stomach gushed out my mouth.

“Easy there lass, you’re alright now.” Ralof sighed. A small part of me wanted to be left alone, away from the shining eyes of his pity. Thankfully the larger part of me was grateful to him for helping me escape Helgen. When I finally stopped vomiting, I turned to him with an earnest look.

“Thank you.” I meant it with my entire being, he didn’t need to help me. The nord smiled wide, eyes crinkling jovially.

“I should be thanking you, reckon I wouldn’t have made out there without your help. Say the Stormcloaks could use an archer as skilled as you do you think-” I cut him off abruptly.

“I need to find the nearest settlement, could you point out the way?” Ralof’s face fell a little, not that I cared much. I was grateful to him, sure but I wasn’t about to rally myself to his cause just because of that. Especially to people who spit in my face just because of the point of my ears and my elven blood.

“Well the hold capital would Whiterun, just north east of here.” I nodded, thanking him again as I got to my feet. “Do me a favour, Amara was it? Yeah, do me a favour Amara and warn the Jarl about what happened here. If there’s a dragon on the loose, they should know about it.”

“Sure, get home safe Ralof.” The Nord nodded, tapping the hilt of the sword strapped to his waist. After assuring I would carry out his request, we parted ways. I agree with him, surely if that beast is still skulking about then the people should arm themselves.

Besides, they couldn’t possibly know I was prisoner. For all they know I could be a travelling silk trader.

What could go wrong?


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi.   
> Some of you may have noticed that I don't have a Beta reader (can't imagine how, seeing as I write with the hands of a Romantic poet hyped up on opium.) So this is just a little note imploring you to ignore the poorly unproof read fanfic before you. I have the grammar and punctuation of a developing child, but I humbly offer you this monstrosity :)

Everything went wrong.

I urged my feet to carry me as fast as I could as I rounded the corner of Battleborn Farm, head swimming with my thoughts.

I couldn’t be- I’m not even from this fucking pile of mammoth dung!

I should never have helped Balgruuf or his shit excuse of a mage, never should have helped him kill that bloody dragon. And now? What? They think I'm going to risk my life to scale a bloody mountain just so I can learn how to risk my life from some snaggle-toothed bearded hermit? 

The Aedra must be having a laugh. 

Passing the Watch Tower, my muscles began to whine in fatigue. Slowing my steps to a slow jog, I allowed my rage to simply consume me. When I was younger, my temper had always proved a problem. Ma used to say I wouldn't harm a fly, unless it harmed me first. Then all bets were off the table. Violent rages, as a child and teen, were something I was accustomed to having. 

Yet, lately things have been different. Something accompanies the rage, a silent darkness taking root in my hollow bones. I noticed it first the night Ma was murdered, when I stumbled in on that Mercenary defiling her before slitting her throat. The mere memories caused my body to shake violently, as if the violence was barely contained within me. That night, it wasn't contained at all. 

A small smiled plucked at my lips, the image of the mutilated mercenary dancing gleefully in my minds eye. He deserved ever slash and stab, he deserved to scream like a stuck pig as I disembowelled him, and he certainly deserved to cry as I cut off his manhood.

My vile thoughts halted as I was met with a peculiar site, just outside the Loreius Farm. A horse and wagon, apparently broken down, and a fretting man dressed as a… Jester? Approaching the man, muttering to himself, I carefully raised my arm to signal that I was indeed standing there. There man started still, turning to me in shock. His features were slight and sharp, hair long and red beneath his black and red jester hat. Although his features seemed to be constantly pooled into a jovial expression, I could tell that the slight man was very distressed.

“Um, hello there. Are you alright?” I asked politely. I had no idea why I was so keen to help the stranger; it wasn’t like I was in the position to be helping anyone. What with running from destiny and all that.

“Oh bother and befuddle! Cicero was transporting his sweet mother to her new resting place but his wagon wheel! This damned wagon wheel has ruined Cicero’s day!” The jester exclaimed, brown eye near watery.

“Uh so your mother is in that box? Dead?” I asked, eyeing the box as if the corpse of the woman was going to pop out like a jack in the box.

“Oh, very much so.” Cicero said matter of factly. “Could you help poor Cicero, oh kind stranger?”

I looked between Cicero and the coffin, a strange sense of grief washing over me. I was sympathetic, how couldn’t I be? Besides, I never got to bury my mother so helping the funny little man was as close as I was going to get.

I’m not completely heartless, I suppose.

“Sure, I’ll see if the farmer up on the hill has any tools he can spare.” I said, earning a clap and dance from the jester.

“Oh thank you! Cicero will make sure to reward you with coin, shiny shiny coin!” I nodded, turning towards the hill.

After a back and forth with the stubborn Vantus, I managed to convince to help the poor fool. Cicero was of course over the moon, thanking me and gifting me 500 gold for my efforts. I stayed with him, sat on the side of the road as Vantus fixed the wheel.

“You’re not from here are you Cicero?” I stated, turning to pass a piece of bread I had stashed to the small man. The jester shook his head.

“Oh no no no… Cicero is not one these lughead Nords.” I snorted at that, deciding I like the jester a bit more. “Cicero is from Cyrodil, from Bravil! That’s where mother’s old crypt used to be before… before it was desecrated.” I shot him a sympathetic look, watching the man’s expression turn dark and pensive.

“I’m sorry you had to uproot your mother, I know what its like to lose a loved one. It’s not something any of us like to relive.” Flashes of that night came back, but the anger didn’t follow. Just the deep sadness that settled in the pit of my stomach. Cicero flashed a small smiled, half hearted almost.

“Cicero thanks you for your kind words stran-”

“Amara, my name’s Amara.” Cicero smiled again, this time more genuine and soft. He met my gaze and for the first time, it seemed like the madman dropped the mask of the jester.

“Cicero thanks you, Amara.” He continued. “Are you from here, you don’t seem like a brick head Nord either.” I laughed, tucking my hair behind my ears to show their pointed tip.

“Certainly not, I’m from Highrock. Camlorn to be precise, it’s a city there.” I explained.

“Cicero thinks that you are a long way from home little Breton, what brings you here?” I cast my gaze down to my hands.

What has brought me here? Of course I know I’m fleeing, but why Skyrim? Why not Hammerfell? I suppose I didn’t have a true answer, not even for myself let alone Cicero.

“That would be complicated… I suppose I got on the wrong side of the Legion and well here I am.” Not a complete lie, just a rearrangement of the timeline. “And now, well I suppose I don’t really have anywhere to go.”

Cicero seemed to ponder next to me, scratching his head as he turned to his partially fixed wagon wheel. Suddenly out of nowhere, he sprung to his feet and did a little jig. I watched him in amusement as he clapped and laughed.

“Oh! Cicero knows! Cicero has solved kindly Amara’s dilemma! She must go to Windhelm, where the Imperials won’t find her…. Oh um… You should hide your ears. But Cicero has solved it!”

“You know what Cicero, you just might be right.” I chuckled, mulling the idea over in my head.

Sure, the Nords are racist, but it beats being hung by the Legion. Also, its far from Helgen, news of the dragon attacks wouldn’t have reached there yet which buys me some time.

I turned my gaze back to the wagon, grateful for its broken wheel and capering Jester.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm thirsty for the clown boi....   
> WARNING:   
> shirtless and slightly suggestive content... meh ish.

The events leading up to my current point in time have been, strange to say the least.

Meeting Aventus Arentino was… Odd. Naturally you can imagine breaking into an abandoned house so you can rest free of charge, only to find a small orphan boy surrounded by a pile of bones stabbing a human heart is…. Interesting.

The fact I agreed to kill for the little urchin, who apparently thought I was a Dark Brotherhood assassin, was even stranger. There went my ideal, low profile life. 

Oh but meeting Astrid was the strangest event of them all.

Recalling my time in the shack, it felt almost like coming to a point in my life which I had been waiting for but was unaware it was even an option. Astrid asked me to kill and… I just did. It was second nature, like a switch had flipped inside me. The darkness and anger that had been brewing inside me spilled over and then, all was silent in my head again. I shed a few tears in fact, at the silence.

Nothing had been silent since I found my father dead in his bed. It’s been an absolute _cacophony_ since the night Ma was murdered. Yet in that small shack in the middle of the marsh, peace finally overcame. While I felt exhausted, the relief overshadowed any fatigue.

Astrid gave me that, she gave me peace. And there was more, the Dark Brotherhood could give me so much more. Not that I had much left. So of course, I joined them, they offered me everything I lost.

Besides, I had to calm the bloodlust somehow.

I rolled my shoulders back and whipped my cowl off as I entered the sanctuary. The contracts Nazir has handed out were easy, all except the miner. She put up quite the fight, who knew houses in Dawnstar had the creakiest fucking floorboards in all of Tamriel? Jogging down the stairs, I noticed Astrid wasn’t in her usual position at the map table. A commotion sounded from the main alcove, raised voices indicating that someone was flaring Astrid’s temper.

Never a smart move. 

Creeping down the second set of stairs, I was met with a sight for sore eyes.

“Cicero?” I said in surprise.

My new family gawked at me as the Jester clapped and grinned upon seeing me. Well Astrid was stuck between confusion and a glare so hard I’m sure it was causing her veins to strain in her forehead. I smiled meekly at Cicero, very aware of the attention I was attracting to myself.

“Oh it is kindly Amara! Cicero remembers you, oh yes! You helped Cicero bring his – well our – mother to this very Sanctuary, oh I knew there was something I liked about you!” The madman squealed.

“It’s good to see you again Cicero and to finally meet the Night Mother.” I replied, eyeing the iron casket. Before Cicero could reply, Astrid interjected.

“Well I see you two are already acquainted.” She stated coldly. I chuckled nervously, wringing my hands behind my back. I wasn’t quite sure why Astrid was pissed, but I Sithis as my witness I wasn’t letting the fool drag me into her anger.

“His wagon had broken down outside Whiterun, I was passing by and decided to help him is all. I barely know-“I was rudely cut off.

“And then kindly Amara shared food with Cicero and spoke to Cicero and waited for Cicero’s wheel to be fixed!” He spoke like an excited child, clapping and jigging. By the Void, he truly is mad…

Astrid dismissed our meeting, flaming Cicero on the fact that she was in charge. She also, thankfully calmer, gave me my first real contract and dismissed everyone. Once everyone had dispersed, I went about handing in my contracts to Nazir and settling down for the night.

However, I couldn’t get the jester off my mind. As we ate dinner together, as we usually did, he was noticeably absent. Later, after everyone had either retired to bed or mulled around, Cicero couldn’t be found in any of the common areas. I sat at the pond, mulling over my thoughts as I watched Veezara train.

“What troubles you sister?” The Argonian asked, barely turning from his target.

“Why? Am I thinking that loudly?” I chuckled. He let out his own raspy laugh, stabbing the target deeply. “Cicero didn’t turn up for dinner, he must be hungry.”

“You are curious about the Jester?”

“Aren’t you? The man is clearly one draugr short of a tomb and he’s already managed to piss Astrid off.” I answered, scratching my chin. Veezara clicked his tongue, swirling and slashing the dummy hard.

“Do not go looking in places where skeletons may hide sister.” He warned. I chuckled, hopping lightly on to my feet. I headed for the slope, surely there was some leftover dinner that was still warm.

“My dear brother, have you ever fought a skeleton? Look at them funny and they’ll crumble to the ground.” I joked. “Besides, we should be welcoming to our new brother and we can do that by making sure he doesn’t starve.”

I knocked at Cicero door gently, unsure if he was asleep or not.

“Who is it?” The Jester sung. I hugged the bowl of stew and the bread close to my chest as my spare hand reached for the doorknob.

“It’s Amara, may I come in?” I answered, but before I got a reply, the door was flung open.

I nearly dropped the food at the sight before me.

Cicero opened the door completely shirtless, his hair free from his cap and disheveled. For a man so thin, he was incredibly well defined. His entire upper body was lean muscle and sharp angles, no doubt from decades of assassin work. Hi trousers were slung low on his hip and it took all my effort not to stare at the V of his stomach leading to… a bad place in my imagination.

“Amara?” I was shaken out of my shock (and lewd thoughts) by the Jester. I shook my head, forcing myself to meet his eyes.

“I thought you might be hungry!” I exclaimed hurriedly “I noticed you weren’t at dinner.”

Cicero didn’t caper or jest this time, the mask of the Jester dropping slightly. No, this Cicero that seemed to emerge in the solitude of the night was far darker. His usual silly smile was now a dangerous smirk and brown eyes looked at me as a hunter would prey. Nazir had mentioned at dinner that apparently, before he had become Keeper, that Cicero was one of the best at the Cheydinhal Sanctuary.

With the way he was staring at me now, I could believe it.

“How thoughtful of you little Breton, to think of poor Cicero…” His tone was soft, barely above a whisper but it was as loud as day to me. He had slung himself on the doorframe and despite having only a few inches on me, I felt like a mouse.

“Well you’re apart of the family now, “ I stammered “um… enjoy the food! Night!” I shoved the food into his hand, turning heel and striding quickly back to the sleeping quarters.

When I finally collapsed on my bed, my heart was beating hard against my ribcage. My brow furrowed, as I grasped at the shambles the Jester had put my mind in.

I am by no means, a blushing virgin. The pleasures of the flesh wasn’t something I indulged in frequently, but I had indulged enough not to be reduced to a mess by a shirtless man. There was something else, something far more to it. It was the difference in Cicero, the fear he had incited. No matter how big or bad the opponent, I never shied from a fight. No one truly scared me, not really.

But Cicero… A wolf in sheep’s clothing and far too aware than he lets on. Now that was scary, how could someone hold such juxtaposing personalities in one body? Pulling the covers extra tight to my chest, I drifted off into an uneasy slumber.


End file.
